


Tetchy

by isis_astarte_diana



Category: The Flight Attendant (TV)
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Concept: Miranda is an insufferable bitch, F/F, Glove Kink, Hate Sex, Knifeplay, Mildly Dubious Consent, Painful Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Stakeout sex, Stalking, Unhealthy Relationships, and we love that about her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27765517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isis_astarte_diana/pseuds/isis_astarte_diana
Summary: Huffing, you turn away from her, staring out of the passenger side window into the gloom of the multi-storey car park. The car is shrouded in darkness, the nearest fluorescent light sputtering with a sickly greenish glow a good few yards away. “I had so many better plans for tonight.”Miranda pushes your buttons. You push back.
Relationships: Miranda Croft/Reader, Miranda Croft/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 64





	Tetchy

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. Wrote this. Put these words down, on purpose, and here they are for you to read. No justification. No excuses. I just... did it.

“Would you stop showing off?”

Miranda shoots you a sideways glance, her gloved hand never pausing in its relentless manipulation of the butterfly knife. She wrinkles her nose and flashes a contemptuous smirk. “Am I showing off?”

“You _know_ that you are.” Once more, the _swish_ , the _click_ , the endless rhythm to her frustration. “And the noise is doing my head in.”

“Noise?” _Swish. Click. Swish. Click._ Your fingers twitch into a tense fist. “What noise would that be?”

Huffing, you turn away from her, staring out of the passenger side window into the gloom of the multi-storey car park. The car is shrouded in darkness, the nearest fluorescent light sputtering with a sickly greenish glow a good few yards away. “I had so many better plans for tonight.”

“No you didn’t.” _Swish. Click._ You wish that she would _cut her fucking hand_ , but the glove would take the brunt of it and she’d probably just carry on out of spite. “I _know_ what you’ve been up to, darlin’, remember? No secrets here.”

You can feel her eyes on the back of your neck now, and the reminder that she _watches you_ shouldn’t have a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, but it does. There’s something of a thrill to knowing that every part of your day, however tedious - buying a coffee, crossing the road, wandering around a bookshop without choosing anything - is now a performance. Miranda does _not_ like to be out of the loop; and, admittedly, coming home to find a bag of your favourite muffins - the ones you’d eyed in the coffee shop before deciding not to treat yourself - or a copy of the book you’d _almost_ bought waiting for you on the kitchen table is, bizarrely, rather sweet. 

Sweeter, now that you’ve given her a spare key to the flat after having to call the landlord for the third time in less than a month to explain that the lock on the front door had been _mysteriously damaged_ yet again.

“They’re obviously not coming,” you mutter, unabashedly petulant. “Can’t we just _go_?”

“We’ve barely been here half an hour.” _Swish. Click._ She sighs, sounding far more annoyed with you than anyone who’s being as _irritating_ as she is has any right to. _Swish. Click._ “Fuckin’ hell, give it a bit longer.”

“Right. Fine.” Your jaw clenches. Desperate for any excuse to get out of the car and away from her, you snap, “I’m going for a piss.”

When your fingers loop into the door handle and wrench it slightly too hard, nothing happens. You try it again. A mechanism inside the door judders and grinds with a tell-tale noise and you whip around to face her. She’s staring straight ahead, through the windshield and into the dark, with a smug look in her eyes.

“Did you put the _child locks_ on?”

Miranda has the audacity not to laugh while she plays with the knife and says sternly, “safety first.”

“Very fucking funny.” You eye the button in her door that controls the lock. You could reach it, quite easily, but doing so would mean sticking your hand into the blur of the swinging blade. “Open it.”

She doesn’t even look at you. “Nah.”

“Open it, or I’ll scream.”

“Go for it.” It’s toneless. “Anyone comes, I’ll kill them.”

You scoff. “No you won’t.”

“Might do.” She says it like you’ve dared her. “Would serve you right. You’ve been getting on my tits all night.”

Your voice is an indignant squeak. “ _I’ve_ been-?! Fuck, alright.” Folding your arms, you snort, “maybe you should put one of your _tapes_ on, babe.”

It’s a low blow and you know it. She falters, just for a second, before starting up the infuriating pattern with the knife again, even quicker now. “Don’t.”

It feels dangerously good to see that you’ve had an effect. “Oh, you’re so _scary_.” Turning back to the window, you point out, “you’re just like one of those dickheads in a meeting who won’t stop clicking a pen, you know. Always fucks me off. Always just makes me want to-”

You can’t finish the thought.

With serpentine speed she’s grabbing a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back until you’re staring up at the soft grey ceiling of the car. Your hands find the locked door handle, the seat cushion, holding onto them with white knuckles to keep from slumping across the handbrake from the force. You’re twisted awkwardly in your seat, your back aching in protest at the angle, but you can’t suppress a laugh.

“Something funny?” Her voice is low as she brings the knife around in front of you so that you can see it. A loose strand of her hair tickles your forehead when the flat of the blade comes to rest over your exposed throat.

It’s cold, and smooth, and you can just barely feel the sharp edges of it. Breathless for more than one reason, you tease, “tetchy tonight, Mandy.”

“ _Oh_ , don’t call me that, darlin’.” She presses harder, hard enough that you can feel your pulse where it touches you. This position puts some pressure on your windpipe so that it’s distinctly uncomfortable. Still, you push on.

“Don’t call me _darlin’_ , Mandy.”

“Think I’ll call you what I fuckin’ like, you mental little bitch.” She pulls on your hair again and you mewl at the wash of prickling pain across your scalp. “Take your pants off, then.”

The words inflame you, but you’re not finished playing, not after spending half an hour with her deliberately pushing your buttons. Echoing her, you sneer, “ _nah_.”

“Please yourself.”

Before you can react the knife is gone and she’s pushing you forwards, letting go in time to send your forehead smacking into the passenger side window. It makes light burst behind your eyes. You swear under your breath, rubbing the impact site with one hand.

Behind you, her door opens and closes.

You barely glimpse her through the windshield before she’s wrenching your door open and reaching for you, fisting the front of your dress in one gloved hand, tugging hard enough to make the fabric dig into your skin as she hauls you gracelessly out of the car and to your feet. You almost bang your head on the doorframe, so sudden is this assault.

“I can-” you cover her hand with yours, trying to ease up on her grip. “I can _stand up on my own_ , for fuck’s sake, get _off me-”_

“Or what, you’ll scream?” She flashes the knife again, teeth glistening in her mirthless grin to match it. “Thought we’d been through that already.”

You offer some perfunctory resistance while she shuts the door and manoeuvres you around to the back of the car, but the heady thrill of finally having her attention dulls your attempts to escape her hands. In a moment of bravery you reach for the butterfly clip that fastens her hair back and yank it loose. It must hurt - it’s _supposed_ to hurt - but she just laughs.

“You’re such a pain in the arse, d’you know that?” Supple leather wraps around your wrist and your left arm is twisted brutally up behind your back. You grit your teeth to withhold a cry. “That big mouth’s gonna get you into trouble one day.”

Even as she turns you around and pushes you down over the boot of the car, the impact knocking the wind out of you as the hairclip falls to the ground with a clatter of plastic on concrete, you manage to bite back, “that’s the idea.”

Outside the semi-security of the car it’s bitterly cold and black as pitch. The smooth surface of it chills you to the bone and makes you shiver; this, though, is nothing compared to the tremor that runs down your spine when she leans down to cover your back with her chest, loose hair brushing your neck, lips close to your ear.

“Are you gonna _shut up_ or do I need to teach you a lesson?” She punctuates the words by slamming her other hand down on the boot of the car where you can see it, the knife still gripped tightly in her leather-clad fingers. The sight of it makes you push back against her, shifting your arse as provocatively as you can with her pinning you down like this.

In the whiniest, most abrasive voice you can put on, you retort, “are you gonna take your _belt_ off, daddy?” 

“You’re fucked in the head.” It’s nothing short of a snarl, her hand tightening around your restrained wrist, but there’s no shortage of affection in it. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? If I turned your arse bright red, right here, while you cried and begged me to stop.”

“You think fucking highly of yourself,” you scoff, weakened by the thought that she might _actually_ do it. “Why don’t you _suck it_ and see?”

“Because I’m not in the mood to play your games, darlin’.” She leaves the knife there, within reach of your free hand, while she tugs the hem of your dress up past your hips, and picks it up once more when you’re bared to the waist save for your underwear. “I’d rather play one of mine.”

Your squirming stops when the blade slides under the fabric of your knickers, tight to the outside of your thigh. It doesn’t cut you, but it _scratches_ , and it disturbs you to know that she isn’t even looking while she does it. “Do _not_ cut my pants off,” you warn, aiming for stern and falling short.

“Think I will.”

“This isn’t _porn_ , Miranda, I paid _good fucking money_ for these and I will be _so pissed off_ -”

You cut off with a furious groan when she does it anyway, the material stretching away from your skin and then fluttering loose with the motion of the knife through it.

“You’re such a _bitch_ sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” Seamlessly she changes hands, one still pinning you down, the other now going for the opposite side of your underwear. “I need to try harder.”

She slices through the other leg, her gloved fingers brushing your thigh when she snatches the fabric up into her hand before it can fall to the ground. Her task complete, she retrieves the knife and finally, _finally_ closes it, slipping it back into her pocket. Her leg slides between yours, the cotton of her trousers pressing insistently up against your vulva in a way that almost makes you forget your displeasure.

“Shame.” She clicks her tongue. “I liked these ones.”

You writhe against the boot of the car. “So did I!”

“Say your goodbyes, then.” Once more, she leans down, proffering the fabric now clutched in her gloved hand. “Open wide.”

You jerk away, but not quickly enough, and she stuffs your ruined underwear into your mouth, pushing it deeper with her fingers until you almost choke on it. It’s not a merciful gag - the material steals the saliva from your mouth, and the taste of your own arousal is thick on your tongue; while the _sound_ of her messing around with the knife is infuriating, the sight of it never fails to affect you.

“Much better.” She covers your full mouth with her hand and gives your face a painful squeeze. You cough weakly around the fabric. “Bet you taste _good_ , don’t you?”

Your face heats under her hand at the words.

Miranda almost tugs your shoulder clear from the boot of the car when she pulls back, straightening up once more, still holding you down by your twisted arm. It’s starting to ache. Her other hand squeezes between her thigh and your own, palming you without care or ceremony, and you grip the edge of the bumper with your free hand for stability. The touch makes your legs quake.

Even with the leather of her glove smeared with your arousal, it still burns when she presses two fingers inside of you.

You cry out into the gag, arching your back, hand slapping down on the car boot with enough force to make your palm hurt. She knows that you _hate_ this, that however slick and supple the leather might be it’s still not fit for this purpose. The thickness of the glove broadens and blunts her fingers, turning the familiar invasion clumsy and rough. With a soft chuckle she pushes them deeper.

Your eyes prickle with tears from the sensation. There’s something unnatural about it, the leather dragging at the delicate membranes of your cunt like this, but being filled and stretched around her fingers still makes your walls throb and tighten.

“Not your favourite game, is it?” Her voice is low. You shake your head emphatically, whining into the makeshift gag. She soothes you without softening. “It’s alright, it’s alright. I’m not gonna hurt you much. Not if I don’t have to.”

You sniffle pitifully and twist under her hand when she slowly withdraws.

“But you do _deserve_ it.”

The upthrust is punishing, lifting your hips with its force, making your abdomen clench as her fingers slam into the patch of nerves at the front of your walls. Your legs twitch, tensing, trying to escape the assault. Your neglected clitoris throbs in time with your pulse.

“D’you want me to stop?”

Without even thinking about it, you shriek a muffled sound of disagreement into the gag, shaking your head again. She laughs.

“Didn’t think so.”

The rhythm she takes up is slow, but no kinder for it. She makes a point of putting her weight behind her wrist every time she fills you, so that even when the dull discomfort of the leather is eased by the slick arousal flooding your cunt the ache never quite goes away. All the while she holds you down, trembling in the cold and the unforgiving dark, dry mouth stuffed with fabric, breathing in the taste of your own desire.

“Touch yourself for me.” Something dark stirs in her tone. Her breaths are heavy, a reassuring indication that she’s enjoying this in her own way. You obey immediately.

This, too, is awkward, wriggling your hand under your hips where she has you bent over the car, and your wrist is trapped between your stomach and the edge of the boot. Your fingers are freezing from the exposure when you finally manage to press them to your clitoris, shock making your walls draw tighter around her fingers as she fucks you.

You overcome it quickly enough.

It doesn’t take long to drag yourself over that edge, your fingertips working frantically against the flesh that feels scalding in its wet heat. She manipulates you from the inside, crooking her fingers skilfully, never easing or faltering in her pace until you howl and stiffen underneath her. Huffing desperate breaths through your nose, biting down on the ruins of your underwear, you come apart with a flood of sensation that has your legs quaking and cramping where they hold you up.

“There you go,” she murmurs, when you finally fall limp against the car. “Good girl.”

She lets go of your arm, letting you stretch out the tightness left in the muscles there, and withdraws her fingers from your cunt with only a pitiful mewl of displeasure from you. You reach up to weakly tug the mess of fabric from your mouth.

“I’m still _fucked off_ at you,” you manage, but it’s hoarse and breathless. “My favourite pants.”

“I’ll buy you more.” She snatches the damp fabric from your hand and uses it to wipe her gloves clean before balling it up in her fist and shoving it into her pocket. “No sense in letting them go to waste. Could be a long night.”

“Take your gloves off next time.” You wince when you straighten up, feeling sore and empty where she’s opened you with her fingers. Hastily you straighten your skirt. “You _know_ I don’t like that.”

“Seemed like you liked it well enough.” Still, she catches the middle finger of each glove in turn between her teeth and drags her pale hands free of the leather. The gloves, too, go into her pocket. “You alright?”

“Fine.” It’s terse, and she frowns, cupping your cheek with her warm hand. When she meets your eyes there’s a carefully measured tenderness in her expression.

“Seriously, darlin’. Was that- was I a bit much?”

If you didn’t know her any better you would say the question was a challenge, but her eyes are crinkled at the corners with genuine concern and you nuzzle into her hand. “No,” you admit, twisting your fingers into the lapels of her jacket to pull her in for a kiss. “Never.”

It’s a _good_ kiss, particularly after the sharpness of the game, her fingers sliding into your hair with affection far removed from the way she’d pulled it earlier. She wraps an arm around you to tug you into her chest, calming your shivering body with her warmth, but the other effects of the cold and the recent orgasm make themselves known with a vengeance and you laugh into her mouth when you pull away.

“I do actually _quite_ need a piss now, though.”

Miranda snickers and lets you go. With a tilt of her head she indicates the dark corner a few feet away from the back of the car. “Go on then.”

You snort with disbelief. “Fuck off.” Raising an eyebrow, she folds her arms and leans back against the car. A smile tugs at her lips. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m not letting you wander off at night with no pants on. Anything could happen.”

“I wouldn’t _have_ no pants on if you hadn’t _ruined_ them!”

“Funny, that.” Her tongue pokes at the inside of her cheek as she rolls her eyes. “Now hurry up, it’s _freezing_.”

“You have a _coat on_!” Reluctantly, you glance around yourself, but the place is deserted and you have no doubt that it’s seen far worse. She watches with a smug smile as you wander into the corner. “Right. Fine. Turn around, then.”

Her boots shift on the concrete when she settles against the car, lifting her chin defiantly. “Nah.”

“Of course.” As you start to tug the hem of your dress up once more, you mutter, “god, I _hate_ you.” 

Even so, you can’t stop smiling.


End file.
